


Perfection, Intelligence, Angst, & Humor

by MissMoMo1990



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoMo1990/pseuds/MissMoMo1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mixture of drabbles and one-shots that showcase the exploits of the TMNT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Water and Ethanol

"Dooooonnieeee! I'm really sorry!" Mikey's whining tone was muffled by the wooden door leading to the resident genius's beloved laboratory.

Massaging at his throbbing temples, Donatello sighed in exasperation. "I know, Mikey. I heard you say so the first six times."

"Are you going to let me back in?"

The purple banded turtle choked back a laugh. His eyes swept over the top of his lab bench where the burnt and blackened remains of his papers lay between glass beakers and a Bunsen burner. Small pools of water dribbled over the edge of the bench to puddle on the floor. Thankfully, he had been able to put out the fire before it had spread any further.

"No."

"Why noooooot?"

With that, Donatello's normally calm nature erupted from frustration. "Michelangelo, the research that I've been working for months on is now gone because you were messing around in here! I told you more than once to stop playing with those chemicals! I had loads of data that I'll have to recollect!" He looked around his lab sadly, noting the water running down the walls. "And you managed to soak everything in my lab! This mess is unbelievable! You are NOT allowed in here!"

There was a moment of silence before Michelangelo spoke, trying one last time to offer a defense for his actions.

"How was I supposed to know water wouldn't put out an ethanol fire?"


	2. MeatLoaf

"Is something burning?" Donnie asked worriedly, poking his head through the kitchen doorway.

"No, no!" Leo insisted from in front of the stove. "Nothing's burning!"

"Not yet," Mikey teased as he placed dinnerware on the table. The comment earned him a glare from the eldest.

"Are you sure?" the genius questioned as he watched Leo try to simultaneously stir the contents of two different bubbling pots. "Do you want some help?"

"I've got it under control," Leo replied. "But can you go get Raph and Master Splinter? Dinner's almost ready."

"Sure," said Donnie, leaving just as the oven timer sounded.

A few minutes later he returned with his father and sibling in tow. The trio took their seats at the table where Michelangelo already sat drumming his fingers on the wooden surface impatiently.

"Yo, what's the hold up, bro?" Raph demanded, picking up his knife and fork. "I'm starvin'!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Leo grumbled, carefully pulling a dish from the blazing oven with his mitted hands. Straightening up, he used his foot to shut the door and marched over to his waiting family members. Feeling pleased with himself, he set his steaming creation down directly on the center of the table. Four sets of eyes stared curiously at it.

"And what have you prepared for us tonight, my son?" Splinter asked politely, smiling at Leo.

"Dude, I think it just moved!" Mikey announced.

"Yer seeing things, Mike," Raph stated as he stabbed at the dish with his fork. "No way this thing moved. It's harder than a rock!"

"I think you burned your bread after all, Leo," Donnie said, confirming Raph's observation by cutting unsuccessfully at it with his knife.

Yanking the oven mitts of his hands, Leo slapped them down on the table and stomped out of the kitchen angrily declaring, "It's meatloaf!"


	3. Never Too Tuff for Cartoons

"…with highs expected in the upper eighties this afternoon…"

Weather. Boring.

"…a chemical explosion at Laird Industries left several people hospitalized…"

News. Depressing.

"…No, Richard! There's no changing my mind! I'm leaving you for your stepbrother, Robert!"

Soap operas. Sappy.

"…you have no idea [sob] how hard it is [sob] to be a raising a baby on your own [sob] at fifteen…"

Reality shows. Stupid.

Raph frowned as he flipped through channels. The one time he managed to beat Mikey to the remote and there was absolutely nothing on. A hundred and fifty channels, courtesy of Don's finagling, and not one of them worth watching.

"…the Tasmanian devil is a carnivorous marsupial…"

"Who cares?" the red-banded turtle demanded, starting to feel irritated.

"….you can own your very own magic mop for just $19.95! You heard right! Just $19.95!"

"No thanks," he muttered as he switched stations again.

"…life is like a hurricane, here in Duckburg…"

Raph's paused, finger hovering over the channel button.

"…racecars, lasers, aeroplanes, it's a duck blur…"

He hadn't seen this show in years. Not since he was a kid.

"…might solve a mystery…"

"Or rewrite history," the hot head joined in, singing under his breath.

"Whatcha watchin', Raph?" Mikey asked suddenly, popping up behind him.

"Gah!" Raph shouted, startled by his brother's sudden appearance. He fumbled the remote, dropping it on the floor. "Uh…nothing…I was just looking for something to watch!"

"…Ducktales! A-whoo-ooh!"

Mikey rested his arms on the back of the couch and grinned. "Aww! Is Raphie-waphie watching cartoons?"

"No!"

"Everyday there out there making Ducktales!" Mikey started singing. "After the show is over it's time for Raphie-waphie to take a nap!"

"You'll be the one taking a nap!" the hot head growled, cracking his knuckles as he stood from the couch.

Mikey laughed nervously, taking a few steps back. He gulped visibly at the dangerous smile Raph wore as he advanced.

"Now, now Raphie-waphie…"

"Mikey-Ikey should run…" Raph advised right before he lunged.

Michelangelo turned and fled with his brother hard on his heels. Even though his life was at stake, the orange-banded turtle could not resist taunting Raphael one last time as he raced across the lair. "D-D-D-Danger! Watch behind you! There's a stranger out to find you!"


	4. Big Brother

"How the shell could you just abandon us like that?"

He could not remember a time when Michelangelo had been mad. Not like this. Not at him. He could only remember a happy Mikey with a mischievous grin arched across his face. But here, in the battered streets of New York, there was no smile. There was only anger as his aged, one-armed younger brother demanded to know why he had been missing for thirty years.

Donatello surveyed his surroundings – wrecked cars, crumbling buildings, piling garbage. This place was miserable and the grisly sky overhead made it all the more depressing. Where was the New York that he knew?

"So the turtle with the big brain finally doesn't have all the answers?"

The purple-clad turtle had no response. Try as he might, he could not figure out what was going on. He wanted desperately to understand, to know what he needed to do in order to find his family. Yet, his brain seemed to have finally reached its limit. He had never felt so useless in his life.

"Donnie!"

Voices cried to him for help, but he couldn't figure out where they were coming from. It was too dark. He tried to move forward, but something was holding him back, keeping him from seeking out the source of the distress calls.

"Donnie!"

Bright lights suddenly flooded a large room where small fires smoldered among piles of crushed stone.

"Donnie!"

Everywhere he looked there was blood. It spattered the walls and ceiling. Then there was the Shredder – laughing ruthlessly, hovering over three masses on the floor. Heart sinking, he knew without a doubt what those masses were. His brothers. His three brothers, bloody and broken. He hadn't been able to save them. He had failed.

"Donnie!"

One of the masses seemed to be talking to him, reaching towards him with a three-fingered hand. It wore a mask of blue…

"Donnie! Wake up!"

Donatello gasped as his eyes snapped open. A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently but urgently. Lifting his head, the genius was relieved to see Leonardo. A young Leonardo with two good eyes staring down at him, the familiar look of worry etched on his face.

"What's going on?" Donnie muttered. As he looked around, he realized that he was seated at the bench in his lab. He had fallen asleep, using a textbook as a pillow.

"You were dreaming," Leo explained. "Pretty vividly. I could hear you all the way from my room."

Donatello blushed. Tremors began in his hands as the dream played itself over in his mind. His brothers dead and it was all his fault.

"The alternate universe dream again?" the leader asked.

A single nod was his reply. Donnie bit his lip, but the tears came forward anyway. He buried his head in his hands as sobs shook his entire body. Leonardo instantly wrapped his arms around his sibling.

"It's okay, Don," he insisted. "We're all here. You did nothing wrong."

Donatello leaned into Leonardo, seeking a comfort that the elder was all too willing to give. Leo held his brother close, offering soft words of support and assurance of safety. Several minutes passed before the all of the genius's tears were spent.

"Come on," the leader said, pulling Donnie to his feet and putting an arm around his shoulders. "It's three in the morning. You need rest."

"But…what if…" Donnie began, afraid of further nightmares.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"You don't have to do that…"

Smiling sincerely, Leo replied, "It's what a big brother does."


	5. Fix It

He was in for a lecture. Raphael had no doubt about that as he rolled into the garage sometime after midnight. The red-clad turtle groaned at the thought of it as he killed the engine on his motorcycle. He shouldn't have gone out, but his latest fight with Leo had left him in desperate need of fresh air.

Yanking his helmet off, Raph dismounted. He tossed it away angrily as he inspected the damage to his beloved bike. Bad drivers plus pot holes plus pedestrians equaled crash when one was trying to avoid hitting all three. The frame was bent, the paint scratched, and it had been hard to shift as he drove it home. Now, to top it all off, Raph noticed that the back tire was low.

The crash had done a number on him, too. His emerald colored flesh sported a nasty road rash where his left side had met pavement. A sharp throbbing sensation was plaguing his left ankle. Raph was familiar enough with pain to know that it wasn't broken, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. Gritting his teeth, he turned again began limping towards the lair.

Raph wasn't the least bit surprised to see a light coming from Donnie's lab. Rather, he had expected it. The genius was rarely in bed before one. Slowly, he made his way towards his brother's haven, pausing only to knock softly on the door.

"Yeah?"a voice called, granting permission to enter.

The door squeaked open revealing Donatello seated at his lab bench, back to the door, bent over yet another project.

"Yo, Don," Raph greeted and proceeded straight to the point. "I need ya to do some repair work on my bike."

"Again?" the purple-clad turtle exclaimed in disbelief. A screwdriver clattered loudly on the bench top as Donnie dropped it to whip around in his chair. Brows furrowed, he began ranting at his younger brother. "I just did repairs on your bike two days ago, Raph! What could you have done to it in two days time? If you can't…."

His tirade faded as he realized the condition Raph was in. The terrapin was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his left side raw and bleeding in some places. Bruises blended with dirt and grime. Don knew that, despite his attempt to hide it, Raph was definitely in pain.

"What happened?" Donnie asked, standing up and walking over to his stubborn sibling.

Raph shrugged. "Idiot ran a red light, pedestrians had ta move outta the way, I had ta swerve so's I wouldn't nail 'em. Wiped out when I hit one of those damn potholes. No big deal."

"No big deal?" the genius repeated. "Raph, you're bleeding in a hundred places! And your ankle's almost the size of a softball!"

"I'll live," Raph insisted. "But my bike…can ya fix it?"

Donatello sighed and shook his head in wonderment. His brother really needed to reconsider his priorities. "Sure, but first let me fix you."


	6. Not A Morning Turtle

The alarm clock beeped loudly from the rickety wooden nightstand. Its face revealed in red digital numbers that the time was now thirty minutes past six in the morning. A three-fingered hand groped blindly for the offending device and slammed down mercilessly when contact was made. The noise ceased immediately. Quickly, the olive colored appendage retreated to its shelter beneath purple sheets.

Five minutes later, the alarm sounded again. The pile of blankets stirred and the hand appeared again. Its second attempt to enforce silence was completed with one swipe that knocked the clock to the floor, shattering it into pieces. Realizing what he had just done, Donatello groaned and poked his head out from beneath the covers. Through bleary eyes he examined the mess. He had not intended to kill the dang thing. Now he would have to add that to his fix-it list. Grumbling, the genius buried his face in his pillow and wondered what it would be like to stay in bed all day. His logical mind reminded him that nothing would get done and so reluctantly Donnie kicked aside the covers and pushed himself into a sitting position.

Yawning loudly, he stretched his arms above his head. The purple banded turtle blinked slowly several times, trying to chase away the lingering feeling of sleepiness. Donnie was not a morning turtle. Not when he was up half the night working on some new project or updating the lair's security or fixing the cable so that Master Splinter wouldn't miss his soap operas. If he believed for a minute that Leo would let him, he'd sleep until noon, but there was a better chance of pig's flying. The only thing that kept him functioning was coffee and the mere thought of the beverage was enough motivation for him to rise from bed.

Without bothering to make his bed, Donnie made his way towards the kitchen. The distance was short. For a half-asleep, sleep deprived turtle, however, the journey seemed long and cruel. Shuffling into the kitchen, he headed straight for the coffee maker. Seated at the table, Mikey and Leo looked up as their brother entered.

"Zombie Donnie lives!" Mikey joked. Cowering in pretend fear, he shielded his head with his arms. "Please! Spare my brains!"

The genius glared at his youngest sibling.

Smacking Mikey on the arm, Leo greeted the new arrival. "Good morning, Don."

Donnie muttered incoherently as he passed by. The leader was slightly surprised at the unexpected response. Usually, he was lucky if his younger brother even glanced at him before he had his first cup of coffee. "Sleep well?"

More mumbling. Shaking his head and smiling, Leo picked up the morning paper to read the front page news. Automatically, Donatello began the daily ritual of brewing his beloved drink. Slowly, the tantalizing aroma of brewed coffee beans spread across the kitchen and rich brown liquid flowed into a waiting pot. Donnie inhaled deeply. Eagerly, he poured the steaming fluid into his favorite mug and, disregarding all risk of burning himself, took a sip. It was like a godsend. On the second, deeper sip, energy surged through his body, waking him instantly. Sighing with relief, Donnie turned and took at seat at the table.

"Raph not up yet?" he asked, perfectly friendly now that he had his caffeine crutch.

"Nope," Leo replied from behind his newspaper. "He's worse than you."


	7. Fearless

When he first called me "Fearless" I was surprised. Never before had I thought of myself as such. Actually, I feel quite the opposite. Every battle, every injury, every time we're separated I'm scared. My heartbeat skips and tremors rattle my fingers as I try to keep my breathing under control. Fear trickles down my spine like cold water and threatens to shut down my brain so that I can't think. But I force myself to fight fear and overcome those paralyzing sensations. I do it to protect them, to be a good brother, to act as a strong leader.

When he first called me "Fearless" it was sarcastic. There's hardly a time when he's not. It was a word I instantly hated. I'm not without fear. I just know how to hide it.

When he first called me "Fearless", it was meant to be an insult. Now it's a nickname, but it isn't always spoken in mockery. Much to my displeasure, my other siblings have started calling me that. I usually ignore them.

When he first called me "Fearless", I wanted to correct him. He was the one to make the first move. With a smile on his face he rushed into battle, ready and willing to fight to the death. It was he who had our backs and took blows for us. He handled pain without complaint. Half the time, we didn't even know he was injured until we were back at the lair under proper light.

When he first called me "Fearless" I wanted to say no. You, Raphael are "Fearless". I, Leonardo, am not.

 


	8. Tail

_It was enchanting._

_Poetic almost, the way it moved about._

_Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth._

A pair of yellow eyes stared longingly from the doorway. Their owner waited, contemplating a plan of attack. His target was kneeling in the middle of the floor, eye closed, completely oblivious to his presence. This would be an easy victory. He almost smiled.

_Teasing._

_Tempting._

_Irresistible._

He couldn't wait anymore. Tentatively, he took a few steps forward before breaking into a run. When just a few inches of space separated him, he lunged straight for it, hissing softly. In an instant it was trapped beneath his feet.

_Success._

XXX

"Michelangelo!"

Splinter's voice echoed throughout the lair as he stepped from his private chambers. Quickly, the rat master stepped over to the couch where his youngest son sat before the television monolith, engrossed by yet another action movie. The orange-banded terrapin wilted slightly under his father's menacing stare.

"Uh…yes, sensei?" Mikey asked as innocently as possible as he wracked his brain trying to remember if he had done anything of late that would warrant a lecture.

Master Splinter lifted his left arm to reveal Klunk, held up by the scruff of his neck. The orange feline hissed violently, claws scrabbling wildly as it tried to reinforce its hold on the pale, pink tail he gripped in his mouth.

"Please, entertain your pet!" he requested with exasperation. "It is quite difficult to focus one's mind in meditation when one is constantly under assault!"


	9. Never Again

Hands linked behind his back, Leonardo paced the length of the living room. It was late: past one-thirty in the morning according to the leader's most recent check of the time. A combination of irritation and worry contorted his face into scowl. His two youngest brothers should have been back by now. Or at least had the sense to call and tell him they would be late.

It was a typical Friday night. Typical meaning Raph met up with Casey and the two played vigilante then congratulated themselves afterwards with a couple of beers. It was not a ritual Leo personally approved of and he had tried to keep Raph grounded here tonight. Of course, the hot head had balked at authority, loudly declaring that Leo would not be stopping him from his "buddy time" with Casey. Leo relented on the condition that Raph take Mikey with him, believing that the presence of the youngest would make Raph and Casey act a little more responsible. Now, however, he was chiding himself for letting them go at all.

Just as Leo decided it was time to go after them, his senses picked up on something. He pause mid-pace and swiveled towards the entrance to the lair. Faintly, he could hear what sounded like off-key singing that was slowly growing louder. Then the door began to open.

"….s-show me the way…h-home…m'tired an' wanna go…bed…"

"Fer cryin' out loud, Mikey! Shut up! Yer gonna wake up Master Splinter!"

Leonardo flipped a switch and the lair was instantly filled with light that illuminated the pair of missing brothers. The leader's frown grew deeper at the sight before him. Raphael was blinking hard as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. He was doing his best to support Michelangelo who was hanging onto his brother's neck, unable to stand alone on wobbly legs. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Mikey was completely wasted.

"Or worse, Leo," Raph groaned upon seeing his oldest brother.

Leo crossed his arms over his chest and waited for an explanation.

"…had a little drink..'bout hour go…" Mikey's singing cut off as his bleary eyes finally focused on the blue-clad terrapin. He smiled widely, his speech punctuated by the occasional hiccup. "Oh, h-hey Leoooooo….what…what's goin' on, bro?"

"You tell me," he commanded, shooting a hard look at Raph.

Glaring right back at his big brother, the hot head adjusted his grip on Mikey. "Oh no, Leo. Ya ain't blamin' this on me."

"Look at him!" the leader exclaimed, gesturing at the youngest. "Is this how you get back at me for not letting you go out alone? Bringing your little brother home drunk? How could you be so irresponsible, Raphael?"

"Oooooo, Leo maaaaaad…" Michelangelo managed to say before he burst into a fit of giggles.

"First of all, Fearless…" Raph growled. He sidestepped awkwardly as Mikey almost dragged him to the floor. Grunting from the effort, he struggled to keep them both upright. "I didn't even want Mike coming along! Secondly, despite what yer thinking, I'm not so big an asshole that I'd purposefully do something that'd make any one of ya unable to defend yer self!"

"So it's my fault Michelangelo can't stand upright?"

The orange-clad turtle raised a hand in protest. "I-I'm standin'…up…"

"I didn't make him drink the beer!"

"I'll have….'nother….beer…" Mikey interjected, holding up one finger.

"You've had enough, Mike," Raph declared. Readjusting his grip, Raph tried to steer Mikey to his bedroom. "Time ta sleep."

"Hold up," Leo said as he moved to block their path. "Not another step until you tell me what happened."

"Christ, Leo!" Raph swore as his balance was once again threatened by Mikey's drunken movement. His neck was sore from supporting his brother. "It's like I'm holding dead weight here! Just let me put him ta bed!"

"Bed sounds nice…" Mikey mumbled, his head flopping onto Raph's shoulder.

"Talk fast," the leader suggested unsympathetically.

Raphael growled lowly, tempted to push past the barrier in front of him. He knew that wouldn't be easy to do while trying to deal with an inebriated Michelangelo. Taking a breath, he straightened himself as best he could and launched into an explanation.

"So we went out and met up with Casey," he began.

"Pffft, Casey…guy is nuts," Mikey commented and then laughed.

Raph clapped a hand over his brother's mouth to stifle the noise and prevent further interruptions. "We went out on a patrol, but I guess there weren't nobody makin' trouble tonight 'cause it was boring as hell. After two hours of nothin' we all went back ta Casey's place ta watch the game and knock back a few cold ones. Laughing boy here went a little overboard and I figured I better get him back home 'cause ya'd flip shit if we weren't here in the morning."

"You should have stayed at Casey's and called me," Leo scolded, hands on his hips.

"God, yer like a mother hen," Raph sneered. "If I had called, ya woulda come runnin' over there ta bring him home yerself. So really all I did was save ya a trip. Yer welcome, Fearless."

"Why did you let him drink so much?" Leo demanded, irked at the "mother hen" reference.

"He only finished two beers!" the hot head proclaimed. He looked at Mikey who was attempting to yank Raph's hand away. "Hell, he couldn't even get halfway through the third before he was fallin' all over the place. Not my fault he can't hold his alcohol."

"Well, I hope tonight was worth it because I think it's going to be a while before you go out with Casey again," the leader declared. He walked over to the pair and stood on the other side of Mikey to help carry him to his room. "Let's get him to bed."

"Ya better have meant Mikey won't be going out with Casey for a while," Raph threatened, remaining where he was. "If ya haven't noticed Fearless, I ain't even tipsy. Don't see why I have ta be punished fer Mikey being a light weight. Maybe ya should ground yerself. Yer the one who sent him out with me, remember? Why'd ya do it if I'm such a bad influence?"

"Well, I won't be making that mistake…"

BLEEEEEEEGH!

Leonardo's retort was cut off by the sound vomit hitting stone. Michelangelo had managed to pry Raph's hand off his mouth to empty his stomach contents on the floor of the lair. The sick turtle was bent over, coughing as he tried to rid his throat of the acidic residue. Leo and Raph looked at each other, grimacing in displeasure as the pool of sick seeped around their bare feet.

"Never again," Leo said in a strained voice. "He is never drinking again."

Raph pulled Mikey back up and quickly began to herd him to his room. "I'll take care of him. You can take care of that."

 


	10. Swing Swing

There was nothing sinister about this darkness. Rather, it was soothing. Contained within the hours of the night, this darkness was a haven for the weary where the chance to rest was offered freely. Such an opportunity was almost impossible to pass up and it was one a certain red-banded turtle was currently using.

It was only half-past ten which was still early by any teenager's standards. Even so, Raphael was overriding his night-owl nature for once. Having spent the previous evening out late with Casey and the majority of the day in the dojo training with his brothers, he had reached a level of tiredness that was no longer ignorable. Knowing that falling asleep on the couch put him at high risk for one of Mikey's pranks, Raph had decided to skip movie watching with the youngest turtle and instead seek safety inside his bedroom. Fresh out of the shower, he was now nested inside his hammock for the night.

All the lights inside his room had been turned off. No noise disturbed the dark silence except for the steady creak of the hammock as it swung back and forth. To Raph, the sound had become a sort of lullaby that played as he rocked himself to sleep. A soft smile was on his face, signifying his contentment. His eyes were only half closed, but the golden irises were fast succumbing to the heavy lids.

Rare were the moments when Raph felt this much at ease and as he teetered on the edge of wakefulness he wondered how it was possible for a hammock to be so calming. After all, it was just a piece of red canvas strung between two support columns in his room. And yet, the ferocious sai-wielder could hardly deny that he loved the thing. Truth be told, his sleep was restless and unsatisfying whenever he bedded anywhere else.

Raph had become aware of this fact years ago. As toddlers, he and his brothers had all slept together on a neatly arranged pile of pillows and blankets. Their secondhand state wasn't what bothered Raph - the items were actually quite soft and Master Splinter had made sure they were all clean. It was just that he could never get comfortable. He couldn't sleep on his tummy because he felt like he was suffocating himself with his own pillow. His shell made sleeping on his back completely awkward. If he slept on his side, he would awaken with his arms painfully numb from paresthesia. Most nights he would fall asleep in a sitting position and wake up to a sore neck. Other nights, he didn't sleep at all.

Thing's did not improve even after Splinter managed to scrounge up a queen-size mattress for his children. Raph's constant tossing and turning disrupted his brothers' rest. Because of this, the red-banded turtle was the first to be given his own bed. When that failed to accomplish anything, Splinter was at a loss for what to do next.

It was Leonardo who came up with a solution. The turtle who would grow up to become clan leader had been reading  _The Swiss Family Robinson_  and his fascination with the tale depicting the adventures of the shipwrecked family gave him an idea. At Leo's suggestion, Splinter constructed a simple hammock by tying the ends of a sheet around two parallel pipes in their first underground home. Raph had eyed the contraption warily and it was only by Leo's encouragement that he gingerly clambered inside. The hammock had rocked dangerously, tipping far enough that Raph tumbled out, landing flat on his shell. Rather than laughing at the display, Leo had pulled him to his feet and offered to help him learn the technique for staying upright. Later that night Splinter discovered his two sons curled up side-by-side in the hammock snoring gently. Smiling to himself, the rat tucked a blanket around them and let them be.

That had been the best night of sleep Raphael had ever gotten. The way the hammock fit the curve of his carapace was like a hand to a glove. Not having the nuisance that the presence of his shell created, he was able to wake without pins and needles in his limbs or the cramp in his neck. From that point on, he was a devout user of the new bed.

That wasn't the only time that Leo could be found next to his brother either. Raphael didn't have nightmares often, but when he did they left him in a state of shock and sometimes elicited ear-splitting screams that seemed to come from his very soul. On those occasions Leo would slip in beside Raph, holding him and whispering words of comfort until they both fell asleep.

But as is the tendency of children, Raphael grew and soon enough became too big to be supported by light sheet. This reality was discovered one night when the young ninja crawled inside and not two minutes later was dumped on the floor because the sheet had ripped clean down the middle. Forced to spend the rest of the night on the couch he, of course, had not slept well. After a week of that, Raph's tolerance level was at an all-time low and it didn't take much provocation to set his temper off. Michelangelo discovered this the hard way after receiving a black eye for flicking a pea at his hot headed sibling during dinner one day.

Concerned about his turbulent son, Splinter looked for a way to resolve the issue, but once again it was Leonardo who saved the day. On a scavenging trip to the dump with his father, Leo happened across a genuine hammock, still inside its original box. Closer inspection revealed that the canvas was perfectly fine though it was dusty and smelled awful. Leo thought that perhaps it had been stored in someone's garage, forgotten about for a long time until it was rediscovered during a cleaning session, deemed unworthy of continued possession, and set upon the curb to be removed with the rest of the trash. Wanting to surprise his brother, Leo had Splinter help him sneak it back into the lair.

Under the pretense of meditating, the oldest turtle spent the majority of the next day cleaning the hammock. He then had Donnie set it up while Mikey distracted Raph. Finally ready, Leo led a grumbling, irritated, and blindfolded Raph to the salvaged bed. The sai-wielder was definitely surprised when the blindfold was lifted away. No words left his mouth – he wasn't capable of forming any. Instead, to express his thanks, he embraced Leo in a brief one-armed hug. For the leader, that tiny display of affection meant more than spoken gratitude ever could.

These were the memories flashing through Raphael's mind years later as he lay inside his gifted hammock waiting to drift off to sleep. A lot had changed since then. Mikey had gotten even more annoying, Donnie had gotten smarter, Leo had gotten bossier, and he had gotten stronger. Not just that, he had also gotten angrier though he couldn't understand why. Fights with his eldest brother were more frequent and more physical than they used to be. Did he regret that he had become distant with Leo? That they were locked in a seemingly constant challenge for superiority? Yes, he did. He wished that they could go back to being as close as they were as kids, when they had been best friends.

Raphael rubbed a hand across his tired eyes and sighed. As many issues as he had with his eldest brother, he still cared about Leo. Apparently, the sentiment was mutual. Why else would the leader crawl in next to him when he had nightmares like the ones that plagued him after Splinter went missing or when Don was mutated by Bishop's aliens? Though he'd never admit it, the only time Raph ever felt truly safe was when he was cocooned inside his hammock with Leo.

Yawning widely, Raph turned on his side and pulled his blanket up closer. He could still pick up traces of his brother's scent on his pillow. The sideways motion of his hammock slowed as his eyes finally slid shut. Raph's last conscious thought was that he ought to thank Leo for giving him this blessed bed. Maybe he would tomorrow.

Tonight, his dreams would be filled with visions of the katana wielding turtle.


	11. Burn

Gentle fingers reached into a small box of rectangular proportions. They shuffled around inside before retreating, a randomly chosen matchstick gripped between them. In one quick motion, the match was drug across the side of the box, rasping across the rough surface of red phosphorus. The friction brought the match to life with a snap and the orange flamed illuminated the face of its creator.

Leonardo knelt in the middle of his room, surrounded by darkness except for the burning light he held in his hand. With somber eyes, the leader watched the small fire flicker for a moment and then touched it to the blackened wick of a candle on the stones in front of him. The bundle of threads eagerly accepted the fire, lighting instantly to help combat the darkness by forcing it to take the shape of shadows.

Leo extinguished the match with a quick shake of his hand and tossed it aside. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he stared at the candle flame that danced for him. His mind was troubled with hundreds of thoughts that all battled for his immediate attention. He hoped that a few hours of uninterrupted meditation would end the mental war raging within him.

Meditation was his coping mechanism of choice – a fact that had become something of a joke to his brothers. Leo had learned to ignore their taunts for the most part. They just didn't understand, assuming that he only did it in imitation of Master Splinter. Their assumption wasn't completely untrue. Leo did strive to be like his father in many ways, but he willingly engaged in additional meditation for other reasons - the main one being that he found it much more effective for dealing with his thoughts and feelings than the methods his brothers utilized. Rather than fight them like Raph, quiet them like Donnie, or mask them like Mikey, Leo burned them.

Carefully, the terrapin leader picked up the candle. Already the top of the wax column had softened from the heat of the flame. Tiny beads of wax dribbled down the side of the candle and Leo imagined that they were his emotions slowly melting away.

This first candle he had lit was for his anger, all of which stemmed from the massive blowout he had with Raphael a few minutes ago. Honestly, he couldn't even remember what started the fight. They had screamed back and forth about anything and everything – past arguments, differing opinions, recycled insults, etc. - so Leo had no clue what the original point of their argument had been. It had only ended when Raph took a swing at him and then stormed out of the lair because Leo refused to try and hit him back. Undoubtedly, the hothead was excising his rage by exploring the streets above on his motorcycle at stupidly dangerous speeds while Leo was left behind to wish hopelessly that his relationship with his younger brother could be a lot less volatile.

Leo touched the burning candle to the cold wick of another. The second candle was for the hurt caused by Donatello. Despite his calm demeanor, the purple-banded terrapin harbored nasty temper that flared whenever he was short on sleep. Apparently the genius had neglected bedtime for a couple of days judging by the way he had snapped at Leo. The leader knew that Donnie's projects were important, but his brother didn't seem to hold the same regard for his personal well-being which Leo had tried to point out. Don, using many complicated words, then told Leo to mind his own business and to focus on his own character flaws before shoving him out of the room and slamming the door shut. Everyone always assumed that Raph was the stubborn one in the family, but the hothead was a pushover compared to the genius. Leo knew that one of these days Donnie would exceed his limit, all for the sake of his beloved science.

A third candle flared, this one for the frustration Leo had for Michelangelo. For starters, he had been the unlucky victim of one of his youngest brother's pranks this morning. Leo did not appreciate having to take a second shower especially considering how hard it was to get flour out from between the scutes of his shell. On top of that, the jokester had attempted to skip training for the third day in a row - special one-on-one training that Splinter had ordered them to complete because the rat master had noticed a distinct lag in Mikey's progress. The eldest practically had to carry Mikey away from the TV and into the dojo. His brother's extreme indifference about advancing his ninjutsu skills, coupled with his overused "Battle Nexus Champion" excuse, frayed Leo's last nerve. Rarely did Leo ever yell at Mikey, but today the practice room had echoed his shouts as he gave his brother an earful. For three hours, Leo guided Mikey through katas before he dismissed the orange-banded turtle. Sweaty and sullen, Mikey marched off and had yet to speak to him again. Leo needed his sibling to realize that he was not invincible.

The fourth candle was lit for the worry he had concerning Master Splinter. His sensei had been trying to cover up a nasty cough for the last week. Of course, the old rat had denied feeling ill when Leo questioned him about it. Leo prayed that his father would regain his health soon.

A fifth candle ignited the sadness he felt. Though his home was fit to burst with family, some days Leo felt like the loneliest person in the world. Today was one of those days.

Candle six burned out of shame. The control he had on his team was slipping.

Candle seven….confusion…

Candle eight…disgust…

Candle nine….hate…

Candle ten….fear…

Soon enough, Leonardo was surrounded by a multitude of tiny winking lights. A smoky scent hung in the air, its presence both familiar and comforting. The leader cast his gaze around his room, a soft smile on his face as he observed the collection of candles. Carefully, he arranged his body in the midst of them all. His eyes slid shut as he focused his mind, ready to let his emotions free.

Eager to let them burn.


	12. Fingerprints

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…._

The pencil was nothing but a yellow blur as it was drummed rapidly and persistently against the surface of the wooden desk. Gripped loosely by an olive green hand, the writing device's musical rendition was abruptly halted as it was moved to hover over a thick pad of white paper. The pencil quickly descended to the top sheet and skated across the surface, leaving a behind a gray trail in the pattern of various words. Halfway down the page it stopped again. After a few seconds hesitation, the pencil was slammed onto the desk. With a loud rip, the paper was torn from its sheath, squashed into a crude ball, and hurled in the general direction of the trash bin which was already overfilled with other paper that had met a similar fate.

Watching his projectile miss its target by a good six inches, Donatello gave a sigh of frustration. The pounding in his temples were indicative that he was about to earn himself a massive headache for all his trouble. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to stave it off, if only for a little bit. The turtle genius had reached the point where coffee no longer helped and eyed his now empty mug with miserable regret.

A glance at the clock on the wall above his desk told Donnie that he had been shut inside his lab for nearly four hours. Four hours and he had failed to produce an answer to the question plaguing his mind. Don was not a stranger to failure. As a scientist, he knew better than to expect to a solid answer one hundred percent of the time. But this time he couldn't even produce a tentative answer – nothing, nada, zip, zally, zilch. Books were stacked in haphazard piles over the entirety of his desk, a few of them open to random pages. They had been scoured carefully and not one of them had been helpful. Neither had his internet search which was stilled displayed on his laptop screen. No experiments could be conducted, no tests run. All of his sources had let him down.

The gurgling of his stomach reminded Donnie of his hunger, but he was loath to leave his sanctuary. Going to the kitchen surely meant that he would run into at least one of his family members who would undoubtedly demand to know what he had been doing for so long.

 _Wasting my time, that's what._  He thought bitterly, his lips pulled into a pout.

The growling sounded again, this time with more urgency and Donnie knew he couldn't ignore it much longer. Groaning with dismay, he decided to surrender to his basic need and stood from his chair. He stretched his stiff muscles. As he brought his hands back down from above his head, he held them in front of his face. His features morphed into a withering glare as he scrutinized the three-fingered prehensile part of his forelimbs. Curling them into fists, he turned and marched for the door, his mind set.

He was not going to give up. Oh, no. He was going to keep trying. One way or another he'd find a solution to Mikey's random question.

"Hey, Donnie, why don't we have fingerprints?"


	13. Stitch

_1\. Clean and irrigate the wound, removing any foreign matter or debris._

He had already rinsed it with water. Doing so had cleared away enough blood that he could see bits of dirt and what appeared to be glass stuck between the severed edges of emerald-colored flesh. Holding the injured limb steady with one hand, Donatello selected a pair of sterile tweezers and carefully began to pluck the tiny shards from the gaping cut on Raphael's forearm. He could still feel the muscles tense and relax as the glass was pulled free. The pieces plinked against metal as they were deposited into a surgical pan for later disposal. Once he was certain the fragments were gone, Donnie dropped the bloodied instrument into the pan as well.

A brown bottle of betadine sat on a nearby table. Reaching for it, Donnie popped the lid and added several drops to a beaker of water. He gave the beaker a couple of swirls, watching the two liquids mix together until it was one solution that mimicked the hue of tea. Satisfied, he pulled the concoction up into a plastic syringe which he then brought back to his brother's wound. He hesitated, but only briefly before pressing down on the plunger. The liquid gushed into the laceration and out again, taking with it a muddy flood of dirt and blood. Raphael hissed as the antiseptic contacted the inside of his skin. Don spared him a quick glance to gauge the level of discomfort Raph was experiencing. Deeming it bearable, he continued and the hissing changed to a low growl. The genius swore that his brother was more cat than turtle.

_2\. Observe the wound and determine the best way to close it._

Setting aside the now empty syringe, Donnie adjusted the lamp overhead so that its light was better directed on Raph's right arm. This latest injury stretched from his elbow joint halfway to his wrist. It was deep enough to require stitches. Don had asked what happened and, from the few muttered phrases he managed to catch, learned that Raph had been shoved through a window during a skirmish with some criminals doing something that Casey had insisted they put a stop to while they had been out roof hopping.

_3\. Thread the needle._

The purple-banded turtle picked up the tong-like instrument that he used to hold the curved suture needle. Over the years, his medical equipment had become more sophisticated – a change for which he was grateful given both Raph and Leo's penchant for obtaining injuries that required more treatment than a simple band aid. Carefully, he fed the needle the strong nylon material it craved and brought it close to his brother's still bleeding arm.

_4\. Start at the center of the laceration and work outwards._

Pulling the sliced flesh together with his fingers, Donnie inserted the sharp needle. He passed the needle through the wound and then back out the other side, pulling the skin together. Taking both ends of the nylon thread, he looped them into a neat knot and repeated the process three times more until the first suture was secure. Leaving a space of about one eighth of an inch, he proceeded on to the next stitch.

As Donatello's equipment evolved, so had his technique which was based off of five basic steps he had read years ago in an old first aid book. Gone were the days of sloppily sewn skin – a product of haste to heal his family members and nervousness from inexperience. He still worked fast, but now his sutures were neat and tidy. His work was something of an art form and was oft admired for the minimal scarring it left behind. But the genius never sought praise. He was just glad to be able to help those he loved.

_5\. Bandage the wound to minimize later infection._

In record time, Donnie was tying off the final stitch. He did a quick double-check to make sure that the wound was sealed before washing away the last few smears of blood. Uncapping a tube of antibiotic ointment, he applied a generous amount of the greasy substance to the entire length of mended skin. The white gauze that he used to bandage it contrasted sharply with Raph's dark green color.

Keeping a firm grip on his brother, the elder turtle delivered his over-used speech about making sure the damaged area stayed clean and that no activity that could potentially rip the sutures should be undertaken if the wound was to heal. Raphael rolled his eyes impatiently, squirming in his seat in his eagerness to leave. Finally, Don released him and he grunted out a hasty word of gratitude be stomping out of the room. Shaking his head in exasperation, the genius began to clean up knowing that his advice would probably go unheeded unless he issued daily reminders. Just like they had last time and just like they would next time.

As he mentally chastised his stubborn brother, there was a knock at the door and his head turned in that direction. A miserable Michelangelo stood in the doorway holding up a bloody finger. Sighing, Donnie beckoned him forward.


	14. Wonder

He noticed the flowers first.

Their bright yellow petals contrasted with the dirty, dull stones of the surrounding buildings like a small array of hope in the midst of this miserable city.

Roses.

Twelve by his estimate.

That was typical, wasn't it?

Arranged amongst a cluster of healthy green leaves, tiny white buds of baby's breath were stuck in clumps between the yellow blossoms. The flora had been artistically wrapped in delicate sheets of violet and lilac-colored tissue paper. A silver ribbon held the bundle together, its ends a massive jumble of curls. The cool spring breeze that blew through the street tugged at the bouquet, making it rustle.

He watched as the flowers were gently placed into the arms of a young woman. With a squeal of delight, she accepted them. Her happiness was clearly evident by the huge smile on her face.

She was a pretty girl – tall, thin, with blonde hair that flowed past her shoulders, and blue eyes.

Exactly the kind of girl he had always imagined he would be with.

Clutching the present to her chest, she leaned in and kissed the man who had given it to her. He couldn't quite hear the words exchanged between them, but he assumed that she had verbally offered her thanks and her companion had responded appropriately. Hand in hand, they walked down the street, grinning at each other as they went on their way.

The turtle sighed loudly. Tugging the hood of his sweatshirt down lower over his forehead, he turned and headed in the opposite direction. His feet moodily kicked a rock down the sidewalk. He had hoped that a trip to the surface would help him clear his head, but it had only made him more depressed.

Up here, he was reminded of the things he would never have.

The chilly wind made him shudder and he hunched his shoulders against it. As he shuffled along, his thoughts lingered on the roses. If he had been the one to pick them out, they would have been red.

Maybe six instead of twelve…twelve seemed like too many.

Bound in black tissues paper tied with silver ribbon….black looked good with red.

And less of the baby's breath….a lot less.

He didn't have to worry about picking out flowers, though.

Not ever.

He wouldn't have to remember which ones were her favorite kind. He wouldn't have to have to fork out the money for something that died after a week. He wouldn't have to worry about the petals being blown off by the wind, frozen by the cold, or wilted by the heat.

Because there would never be a girl to give them to.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder.


	15. Sometimes

**Warning: Some strong language. Self-Harm Implied.**

Sometimes he'd like to open his mouth and scream.

Grievances. Profanities. Blasphemies.

Anything. Everything.

Maybe no words at all. Maybe a high-pitched screech of frustration.

To let it all out and not give a damn who heard him.

Sometimes he wishes that they'd leave him alone.

Stay away and give him his space.

Respect that personal boundary that they cross so many times.

Tell them all to go to hell.

Sometimes he thinks life would be much easier if he just left.

Ran away and never came back.

No more responsibilities. No more obligations. No more duties.

No rules. No punishments.

Just freedom.

Sometimes he can't keep the tears back.

The sadness. The depression. The helplessness. The worthlessness.

All of it builds up and overwhelms him.

Then suddenly he's sobbing, face red and snot dribbling from his nose.

Of course he doesn't let anyone see.

He waits until he's behind a locked door.

Or high up on an empty rooftop.

Sometimes he asks himself why they even need him.

They probably don't.

They'd probably be a better team without him.

Sometimes he wonders if he'd be better off dead.

Drag a blade across his wrists.

Take a wrong step off a building.

Let a Foot Soldier shove a sword between his ribs. Make it look like he went down in a blaze of glory instead of like the fucking coward that he is.

They might mourn him at first. But they'd get over it.

Accept it, move on, and eventually forget.

Sometimes he thinks he'd actually go through with it.

Off himself. End his misery.

Until he remembers that he has family.

And realizes he'd be hurting them.

Let his brothers down.

Disappoint his father.

Sometimes he's worried that he's losing his sanity.

When the voice in the back of his mind argues with itself.

When the devil on his left shoulder fights with the angel on his right.

When he thinks these terrible thoughts.

Sometimes he pushes such thoughts aside.

Shakes it off and moves on.

Smiles. Laughs.

Pretends that everything is just fine.

Believes that everything will be okay.

Hopes for a better day.

Sometimes.

But not always.


	16. Bleed Out

**WARNING: SAINW Setting**

Thick, black smoke billowed towards the sky as night settled over New York City. The noxious vapor fled from the intense heat of endless red and orange flames that surged from one block to the next. Savage and starving, the wide-spread fire greedily ate at the city with its blazing tongues.

But Michelangelo paid little heed to the buildings burning around him.

His attention was focused on the crimson pool fast forming at his feet. Warm and wet, it seeped between his toes, staining his flesh a sticky scarlet. Ripples broke the pool's smooth surface as drops of blood rapidly assaulted it from above.

Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.

The sound of each drop hitting the ground seemed strangely magnified, filling the ninja's ears with loud echoes. He stood motionless, watching the gory rain fall from its source.

His own severed arm.

Everything from the elbow down was gone. Completely gone.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Michelangelo screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them again after several long seconds, the vision had remained unchanged. There where his left arm should have been was nothing.

Disbelief overrode every other possible emotion he could have felt. Stuffing a nunchuka back into his belt, he reached with his right hand towards the opposite limb. His fingers closed around air. Warm blood drizzled over his knuckles. Michelangelo began to shake.

He hadn't even realized it had happened. A mere second ago he had dispatched the last of the Foot Ninja that had ambushed him during his attempted escape. Said soldier now lay in a lifeless heap a few feet to the right, brain matter seeping out of his fractured skull. In all, there had been twelve of the Shredder's minions and Mikey had eliminated every single one of them.

And somewhere in the process he had lost his arm.

As he glanced around at the dozen bodies scattered around him, Mikey tried to determine how and when it occurred. Perhaps he had not dodged the slash of that katana lying on top of the sewer grate. Or maybe he had failed to avoid the chop of the battle axe buried deep into the boarded window of what was once a jewelry store. Or maybe he had not missed the swing of the kusarigama wrapped around the street light. Or…

Legs trembling uncontrollably, Michelangelo fell to his knees as his mind clouded from blood loss. He slid in the red puddle, landing on his right side. The last bit of adrenaline petered out of his system, replaced by a crushing exhaustion. Breathing heavily, Mikey flopped over onto his carapace. Oddly enough, he felt no pain – just a persistent numbness.

The fires were growing closer. He listened to the harsh crackle of the flames as he stared up at the darkened heavens. Clutching at the stump of his arm, he became lost to his thoughts.

Tonight was supposed to have been the night that Shredder's reign ended. Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo had been planning this battle for weeks. Everything had seemed flawless. Big brother was supposed to lead them to victory and the world restored.

But something had gone wrong. Now another section of New York was destroyed and somewhere in the melee, Mikey was separated from his siblings. He was on his way to their rendezvous point when he had been set upon by the Foot.

A deep shudder rattled his bones. Despite the waves of heat surrounding him, he was cold. He could feel his heartbeat slowing. With a strangled sob of despair, Michelangelo accepted his fate.

He wasn't going home tonight.

Here, he would stay.

Bleed out and die.

Be consumed by the flames, never to be seen again.

All the oxygen in the atmosphere had been robbed by the fire. Michelangelo's lungs pleaded desperately for the air they needed to function.

Blinking slowly, he sighed and prepared to surrender.

Then through the menacing haze of black vapor came a hulking silhouette. It approached quickly, stopping once it reached Michelangelo's side. There it stood, hovering over the still bleeding turtle.

Mikey tried to identify the stranger, but the intense heat and acrid smoke kept him from opening his red, stinging eyes more than half way. Something about the figure unsettled him. Teetering on the brink of consciousness, he shakily reached for a weapon with his remaining hand. The effort proved to be too much for him and he failed to summon the strength need to grip the nunchaku. His fingers slid from the wooden handle and fell, coming to rest on top of the dirty pavement.

As if in slow motion, the mysterious being lowered itself into a kneeling position. A familiar face swam in and out of focus. Finally recognizing it, Mikey's initial trepidation faded.

"Raph…" the youngest Hamato son rasped out. Swallowing, he tried to moisten his sore throat. "…Raphael…"

The larger terrapin surveyed his battered brother, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering flames that crept steadily nearer. Wordlessly, Raph reached up and untied the red mask from his head. Selecting a short, metal rod from amongst the debris that surrounded them, he fashioned a tourniquet around the gory stump of Mikey's arm to staunch the flow of red.

Michelangelo flinched, groaning at the sudden, tight pressure. At that point, his awareness of pain manifested. What felt like bolts of electricity shot through his upper arm and straight into his spine. Twitching in agony, Mikey could not hold back a blubbering whimper that threatened to transform into a scream.

"Shhh," Raphael soothed, finally breaking his silence. "Hang in there, bro."

Grunting, the sai-wielder picked up his fallen comrade as gently as possible. Despite his careful attempts, his brother moaned piteously as he was lifted from the ground.

"Shhh," Raph shushed again. "It's gonna be alright. I got ya." Turning, he stepped swiftly towards a gap in the flames. "Come on. We're getting out of here together, bro."

A small sense of relief began to course through Michelangelo, giving to fruition a hope that he might stave off death a while longer. Ash rained down upon them, coating them both with a gray dusty layer as the fled the fire. Finally, Mikey allowed his eyes to close, knowing that he was safely nestled in his brother's arms.


	17. The Best Revenge

Most of it he doesn't remember.

His secondary mutation.

What he does remember haunts him – if his thoughts slow too much during the day or when his mind is vulnerable as he sleeps at night. The memories, broken and sporadic, assault him mercilessly until he's shaking with fear and shame.

A monster, they called him.

Not brother…not friend…

A monster…a thing…a freak….

And why shouldn't they have called him those things? He had terrorized them, fought them, and hurt them. All of them.

You didn't mean to, they told him.

Didn't he though? Fueled by a relentless rage, his only instinct had been to inflict pain on anyone who came within his sight. It didn't matter that they were family. He wanted to destroy them, to rip them from limb to limb.

It's not your fault, they insisted.

How could it not be his fault? If he had been a little bit stronger, he would have been able to fight off that human-cockroach mutant that had attacked them in the sewers. If he had been a little bit quicker, he would have avoided its sting. If he had been a little bit more concerned about himself, he would have taken his "cold" more seriously and may have prevented his transition into a huge, red-eyed beast of a turtle.

Everything's okay now, they assured.

Really? Was everything really okay? He could feel his brothers and his father study him warily, as if he might revert back into his monstrous form. Michelangelo's jokes that the full moon might trigger a relapse could actually be a genuine concern that they all had.

You're cured, they celebrated.

Completely? Every time Donnie looked in the mirror he had to convince himself that he wasn't seeing his eyes turn red, his beak lengthen into a snout, or his teeth sharpen to points. He'd run a hand over his plastron to make sure it hadn't expanded and swish his tail to check that it hadn't gotten longer. It wasn't that he doubted Leatherhead's ability to make a permanent cure, but the experience of being mutated a second time had made him paranoid.

Blame Bishop, they advised.

Yes, Bishop was definitely the one to blame. It was he who had ordered the creation of genetically modified aliens. It was he who had not given second thought to the repercussions of his actions. It was he who had failed to keep the outbreak under control. It was he who had filled Donnie's family with false hope by promising them a treatment that didn't exist.

For all these reasons and more, Donatello should have been furious with the black-suited government agent. Everyone else certainly was. As soon as Don had been returned to normal, Raphael started threatening to rip Bishop's spinal column out. Leonardo had dissuaded the hothead's declaration of intent, asserting that they would handle Bishop together as a team when the time was right. Splinter commended Leo's decision, Mikey agreed that big brother knew best, and Raph relented sullenly.

Yet, Donnie felt no intense anger for the man. Perhaps it was his passive nature, but the purple-banded turtle could not summon the rage to deliver the wrath that Bishop undoubtedly deserved. Not that Donnie wasn't upset with Bishop, he just stewed silently, keeping his emotions in check.

Could Don make Bishop pay for everything he had done? Absolutely. The genius had both the creative capacity and the technical skills to develop, initiate, and execute a plan to take Bishop down for good, with or without the aid of his brothers. In all actuality, the E.P.F. leader wasn't that hard to figure out. Don had always been the first one to guess correctly at Bishop's game whenever they had encountered him. Bishop himself had complimented the bo-wielding turtle on his astuteness. What praises would he sing if Don permanently outwitted him?

But even on his darkest day, when the nightmares became too real or his thoughts too depressing, Donnie couldn't bring himself to do much more than pick up a pencil and stare idly at a blank sheet of paper, his ideas for vengeance refusing to leave his head for his fingers to transcribe. He was not a spiteful person, no matter how seriously hurt or deeply offended he had been. True, he would seek retribution from Mikey for one of the jokester's pranks, but it was well understood by all that his actions then were in good humor and not malice like any counterplay on Bishop required. The instant Donnie's pencil stroked the paper a quote he'd once heard always came to mind:

_The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury._

And that would put an end to the brilliant ninja's plotting. He did not aspire to be like one of his enemies. Moreover, he did not want his family to question his morality if he were to exterminate Bishop in cold blood. Splinter hadn't raised his sons that way. The old rat had instilled within them all the practice of bushido and such lessons were not easily dismissed.

Sighing softly, Don would let his pencil fall to the desk. Instead of revenge, he focused his efforts on overcoming the horrible days he spent as a lunatic double mutant. Such a task was much easier if he kept his mind and hands occupied. Thus, he threw himself into projects with gusto.

Yet still hoping that karma would catch up to Bishop sooner rather than later.


	18. Cat Napping

Raphael tried not to think about how much every inch of his body hurt. His head throbbed, his muscle ached, his cuts stung, and his bruises were tender. Tucked in his hammock with his left leg dangling over the edge, he slung an arm over his face to shield his eyes as he waited for the aspirin he had reluctantly taken to start working.

The hothead had paid dearly for his time out with Casey last night. While the pair had gotten their wishes for some vigilante action fulfilled by a group of wannabe gangsters trying to break into a liquor store, the fight had been far from easy. Victorious, the pair had shuffled on home in the wee hours of the morning, both bearing new battle scars.

Which, of course, had drawn Master Splinter's attention.

That and the fact that Raph's sleep-deprived state had left him sluggish during training and much more susceptible to his brothers' attacks as they sparred. His subpar performance had earned him the old rat's fury and he had spent the better part of the morning inside the dojo alone with his father atoning for his sins through a workout so intense that his limbs had started to feel like jelly. As if that wasn't bad enough, after Splinter released him, Leonardo had accosted him in the hallway to deliver a verbal beating to boot. Understandably, Raph was very cranky by the time he was finally able to escape to his room.

A heavy sigh of frustration blew between Raph's lips. He had reached the level of exhaustion where sleep now eluded him. As he lay there wishing desperately for slumber and cursing his luck, he failed to notice a pair of yellow eyes peering out at him from underneath the dresser across the room. Slowly and unblinkingly, the eyes began to creep forward.

Raph started when something furry suddenly brushed his foot. Head jerking up, he scanned the floor in search of whatever had touched him. Next to his toes sat Michelangelo's orange cat, licking at one of its white front paws.

"Dammit, Klunk," Raphael growled at the feline. "Ya ain't supposed ta be in here! I told Mikey ta keep ya out!"

Ceasing his cleaning task, Klunk glanced up at the mutant turtle and meowed.

"Ya better not have been shredding my magazines again, ya little furball!"

The cat wound around Raph's foot, rubbing his long body against the green flesh. Strands of cat hair loosened and drifted through the air. Raph frowned in disgust and retracted his foot, slipping it into the safety of his hammock.

"Get outta here already," he grumbled, letting his head flop back down on the pillow. "Stupid cat."

Klunk soundlessly jumped up and landed on Raph's stomach. Whiskers twitching, he began sniffing around the new terrain. Raph loosed another growl.

"I said get outta here!" he shooed while waving a hand in the cat's direction. "Go on! Get offa me!"

Instead of shying away, Klunk batted playfully at the sai-wielder's large fingers until they were withdrawn. Klunk crouched down, tail waving high in the air and his front paws stretched out before him. He watched Raphael intently as he waited for the next attack.

"I ain't trying ta play with ya, flea-bag!" Raph declared and pointed at the door. "Get!"

The quadruped didn't bother to look in the direction indicated. Maintaining eye contact, Klunk straightened up. His sharp claws appeared and he proceeded to knead at the red blanket beneath him.

"Hey!" the red-masked ninja objected. Plucking the cat off of his stomach, he held Klunk high over head. "Knock that off!"

Limbs dangling, Klunk cocked his head and stared down at Raph as if he was greatly amused to have ended up in such a lofty position. A loud purr rumbled forth from his chest. The corner of Raph's mouth quivered, almost breaking into a smile.

"Yer a pest, ya know that?"

Raph lowered the cat to his chest. Klunk laid down immediately and stared at the mutant turtle for a second before his attention was drawn elsewhere. Claws extended, Klunk snatched at the tails of Raph's mask that were draped over his shoulder.

"Stop that!" Raph scolded. Seizing the ends of his mask, he tucked them out of sight behind his shell. "Why do ya keep trying ta stir up shit with me?"

Klunk's response was to meow and flop over onto his side. Belly exposed, he pawed at Raph's plastron and resumed his steady purr. Without thinking about what he was doing, Raph began to scratch at the cat's soft underside. Klunk stretched his legs out, determined to have every possible inch of his stomach grazed. The display made Raph chuckle.

"Yer pretty content with yerself, ain't ya?"

Again, the tiny beast meowed. Deciding he had enough tummy rubs, Klunk opened his mouth placed his teeth on Raph's hand, threatening to bite down. Raph halted his actions immediately and Klunk released him. Rolling to his stomach, Klunk sat up.

"So what now?" Raphael asked him.

Arching his back, Klunk performed another stretch and yawned widely. He then relocated himself to Raph's right shoulder and nestled into the crook of the mutant's neck. Tail curled around him, the cat's eyes drifted shut. With his right hand, Raph reached up to pet the tiny body. He smiled as Klunk's renewed purring vibrated throughout both of them.

"I think ya got the right idea, kitty-cat."

Mouth contorting into a yawn, Raph felt his eyelids growing heavier. The pills he had taken had finally kicked in and the pain he felt had dulled. He tugged his blanket a little higher. Soon enough, his light snores covered the sounds of Klunk's purrs and the two new friends enjoyed a long nap together.

 


	19. Denigrate

" **Denigrate"**

**Rating: PG-13 (for strong language)**

**Summary: Raphael is tired of being vilified by his family.**

Damn, I fucking hate this place and everyone in it. I hate that they're always making me out to be the bad guy. I hate how they blame everything on my temper. That's the only part of my personality they ever seem to notice and they sure as shit don't hesitate to comment on it like I wasn't even fucking aware that I had one.

Hell, I know I do. I ain't gonna deny it, but I ain't gonna let them accuse me of being the only turtle with a temper either. Everyone forgets how nasty Leo can be when he's riled up. But it's okay 'cause he's the leader and he's under a lot of stress and he shouldn't be ashamed to let his feelings out and it's perfectly fine if he wants to go off all by himself to let out steam. I, on the other hand, am supposed to control my rage and keep my ass home because if I don't I'll lose my head and do something stupid.

Like take a pipe to Mikey's head.

They ain't ever gonna let me fucking forget that one. It don't matter that I admitted to being in the wrong. It don't matter that I apologized to Mikey and the rest of the family. It don't matter that Mikey said that he forgave me. They throw that mistake in my face every chance they get. I guess they enjoy making me feel like the biggest piece of shit that ever walked the earth.

Maybe I ought to start bringing up the time Leo threw me off a roof over a damn sword. Or the time he got so pissed at Splinter that he sliced our old man's forehead open with his katana. He got sent away because of the way he was acting, but somehow he's still the goddamn golden boy of the family. I'm the one that's full of demons. And the Fearless Leader has taken it upon himself to try and exorcise the fuckers out by what else?

Lecturing me.

That pompous asshole can't ever keep the condescension out of his voice. Likes to think he's Mr. Important and his words are the answer to all problems. Yeah, 'cause him telling me I can't let myself get mad is somehow going to miraculously remove "angry" from the list of emotions I can feel. It makes me want to try and better myself when I hear him say I'm going to be the one who ruins his precious fucking team if I don't check my attitude. I do see how fair it is to be labeled a hot-headed, selfish prick even though Leo acts just as rashly as I do sometimes. But god forbid I ever point out Leo's shortcomings. Oh, no, then I'm a stubborn ass who's only looking to start a fight. Leo wouldn't ever throw the first punch. That's my job.

At least, it is according to Mikey.

That little brat has to make everything into a fucking joke…

… _Don't make Raph mad unless you don't like the way your face looks…_ or… _Raph's got the red mask because that's what color he turns when he gets mad…_ or… _good thing we don't wear clothes because we couldn't afford to replace them every time Raph goes into Hulk mode…_

…then he proceeds to antagonize the hell out of me. I ignore him and he redoubles his efforts until I hit my breaking point and beat his sorry ass into leaving me alone. He goes crying to Leo or Sensei and I'm the one at fault. They're right though. I shouldn't have to resort to violence to convey to Mikey that I don't want him bothering me. He should know to stop the first damn time I ask him to, but Splinter and Splinter Junior don't ever consider that to be a solution to the fucking problem. I'm the one who's gotta change. Not Mikey.

Just don't let him get to you. That's what Don says. I would've thought that he could understand how hard that is since Mikey's always bugging him while he's doing his science shit. But then Don can tear Mikey a new one and toss him out of the lab without worrying about getting in trouble or being called a bully. Must be nice.

Yeah, I used to really rely on Don. He always seemed to have a sympathetic ear whenever I needed to vent. Should have realized sooner that he's just too damn polite to have turned me away. Well…polite most of the time. His tongue's got a sharp edge to it if you succeed in pissing him off. Thought I had managed to keep myself on Don's good side, but apparently not. Seems that nowadays I can't even open my mouth before he interrupts to roll his eyes and snap at me to shut down my temper. It may hard to believe, but I ain't always got something negative to say and Don's assumption that I'm just gonnna launch into a tirade is pretty damn insulting. I guess he's ready to give up on me, too.

Just like Master Splinter.

If I had a dollar for every time Splinter said he was disappointed in me, I could buy a penthouse in Manhattan overlooking Central Park. All he ever sees when he looks at me is a problem child…one he doesn't know how to deal with.

When I get mad, he won't try to understand why I feel the way I do. Oh no. He tells me that I'm full of poison. He tells me that I'm going to turn into a monster. He tells me that I'm headed down a dark path and nobody's gonna be able to guide me back if I can't suppress my rage. Then he kicks me down into a pit of shame and walks away.

That's not what a kid needs from his father!

I ain't evil….

…I swear to god…

…I ain't.

Why doesn't anybody believe that?


	20. Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: "Solitude, isolation, are painful things and beyond human endurance." ~ Jules Verne  
> [Insert turtle of choice]

Solitude.

Silent solitude.

Most days it was a welcome relief. Today it was a wretched torment.

Solitude made him think.

Think about the day. Think about the week. Think about his life. Think about what was wrong in all of them.

All the good was gone. Driven out by thoughts of criticism, depreciation, and loathe.

Nothing was right.

Everything was wrong…

…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…

…and there was no one to blame but himself.

It was his choices that had put him in his current predicament. Now here were the consequences. Consequences that he had once felt prepared to face because he was certain that his decisions were the right ones to make.

And he was wrong. So terribly wrong.

Yet no matter how strongly he willed it, there was no changing what had been done.

No take-backs. No do-overs. No quick-fixes.

Just wishful thinking about how better his life could be if only he had done one thing differently. Or two. Or three. Or more.

He would be happy. He would be hopeful.

He would not be sitting in this dark corner of his room.

Lonely.

Lost.

In solitude.

His family didn't understand.

They listened, but didn't hear. Offered advice, but gave judgment. Made assurances, but broke promises. Declared love, but hid it. Seemed helpful, but never really were.

Then their lives went on while his was left at a standstill.

How unfair it was that they could feel joy when all he felt was despair.

He was beginning to believe that he had gotten what he deserved.

Solitude.

He was headed for a breakdown.

Of that he was sure.

Tears clouded his eyes almost every night when he crawled into bed.

Hell, they were already threatening to fall.

And while he was trying to convince himself not to let them, one slithered down his cheek. Followed by another. Then another.

Eventually he became a sobbing mess, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep his noise to a minimum.

How shameful it would be for his family to find him crying.

In solitude.

He wanted to leave.

Pack up what he had, turn away, and not look back.

Run like the devil was on his heels.

But what could possibly await him on the distant horizon?

Solitude.

The same thing he'd have if he stayed.

Solitude.

Either way, he was screwed.

That was his luck.

That was his life.

Solitude.

Only silent solitude.


End file.
